Harry Potter and the Skillful Art of Marauding
by epholge
Summary: Harry's back at Hogwarts for his fifth year and has a lot on his mind. In addition to a relentless paparazzi, OWLs, and a plotting Dark Lord, things get even more hectic when Sirius and Remus leave on a mission and two male students appear at Hogwarts and develop a fascination with him...hmm. Will Harry survive long enough to discover what's afoot at Hogwarts?
1. Chapter 1: Letter Blues

The early-afternoon sun filtered into the arched windows of the Gryffindor common room, reflecting flecks of light off the golden drapes that extended from floor to ceiling. The weather was unexpectedly warm for late October, making the first Hogsmeade trip of the year irresistible to most students, who were spending the day sipping butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and chattering about the Halloween feast taking place a few hours later that evening. Even the first- and second-years—not yet eligible to visit the neighboring magical community—chose to spend the day outdoors, organizing a pick-up Quidditch game on the grounds by the lake.

Only one student chose to forgo the day's festivities. Feet reclining on the coffee table and one hand tracing circles on the temple of his forehead, Harry nestled himself further into the cushions of the common room's comfiest armchair. The rare silence and privacy provided a much-needed break from the usual barrage of stares, whispering, and questions.

Shifting his shoulders a bit, Harry furrowed his brow at the short note from his godfather resting between his fingers. Delivered by Hedwig nearly three weeks ago, the slip of parchment had been unrolled so many times that it now lay almost flat in his hands. Apparently scribbled in a hurry, the almost illegible text read:

_Harry,_

_I won't be in contact for a while. Dumbledore has given Moony and I an assignment. I can't tell you much, just that we'll be leaving London shortly and I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. Communication may be all but impossible. I promise I'll write when I can. _

_Stay focused on your studies. O.W.L. Exams will be here before you know it. _

_Snuffles_

Harry rubbed harder at his temple as he examined the contents of the letter, debating the same unanswerable questions he'd been turning over in his mind since he'd received it. "Where are you, Sirius?" He muttered. "What are you guys up to?"

After a few minutes of futile frustration, Harry reached forward and snatched his copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages _from the table in front of him. Opening to a chapter four, he tried to stop thinking about secretive and potentially dangerous missions and focus his concentration on "The Arrival of the Golden Snitch."

* * *

Some time later, Harry awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder and calling his name. "Harry? Harry, wake up. You'll miss the feast."

He groaned as he opened his eyes, grimacing at the bright light and bustle of students. "What time is it?"

"Nearly six," Hermione told him. "How long have you been asleep?"

"I dunno. Couple hours, I guess. Must have dozed off while I was reading," Harry yawned, sitting up in the armchair and rubbing at a kink in his neck. "How was Hogsmeade?"

"You should have been there, mate." Ron told him, plopping down in an adjacent recliner. "Spintwitches got in a new line of quidditch gloves that you've got to see. And Zonko's got in a bunch of brilliant new stuff, as well. Which reminds me—don't eat anything Fred and George give you for at least a month."

Harry grinned. "Noted. Thanks."

"And we brought you back loads of sweets and couple bottles of butterbeer. I dumbed everything on your bed with."

"You really _should _have come along, Harry," Hermione said earnestly. "Dumbledore's threat must be working because we didn't see a single reporter in town. And even if they were, you can't hide from them fo—"

"Drop it, Hermione," Harry broke in shortly, bookmarking his page in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ with Sirius's letter. "Shall we get to the feast, then? I'll drop this upstairs and be right back."

Harry pointedly ignored the knowing and somewhat amused glance exchanged between Ron and Hermione as he made his way up the staircase.

It was nearly eleven that evening when the portrait hole swung open, revealing a rather exhausted-looking Ron and Hermione. Prefect duties required them to oversee the Halloween festivities including, much to Ron's dismay, clean up. They'd requested Harry wait for them in the common room ("We've hardly seen you at all, this week!") and Harry braced himself for some sort of lecture.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione sighed as dropped down on the sofa. "I didn't think we'd be gone this long."

Harry waved off her apology. "How was it?"

"Bloody miserable," Ron huffed as he collapsed next to her. "Being a Prefect takes all the enjoyment out of things."

"Don't listen to him, Harry," Hermione told him as Harry let out a small laugh. "He's just in a mood because Malfoy got out of duty tonight. Apparently he's got private potions tutoring early in the morning and Snape says he's got to be well-rested."

"Malfoy's a git," Ron said.

"No arguing with that," Harry nodded.

"Any word from Snuffles yet?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

"I wouldn't about it too much," Hermione advised. "He and Remus can take care of themselves."

"I know."

The crackle of burning embers filled a few moments of tense silence. Harry watched the ashes rise from the fireplace and then disappear. Rubbing the sleep from the inner-corner of his eyes, he looked at the pair expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?" Ron countered, but Harry noticed the corners of his ears turning pink.

"Well, did you have something to talk to me about, or should I head off to bed," Harry asked, a smile grin playing on the corner of his lips. "I'm technically out of bed past hours, you know. And what was it McGonagall told you last week? Oh yeah, _'You shouldn't facilitate Potter's recklessness and lack of self-concern._"

Ron laughed and Hermione even smiled while adding, "She's not wrong, though."

Harry scowled.

"Don't give me that look, Harry," Hermione said shortly. "You know as well as we do that you've been a little, er, unconcerned about your own safety lately."

"That's unfair," Harry shot back. "I stayed in from a Hogsmeade weekend just to—"

"—Just to avoid _The Daily Prophet _taking any more pictures of you? Be honest, Harry, that had nothing to do your well-being."

Harry's scowl deepened and Ron laughed again.

"I'm going to bed," Harry rose from the armchair and made his way to the staircase. He stopped short on the landing, however, when the hinges of the portrait hole sung open. Professor McGonagall stood at the entrance, still fully dressed. Curious, Harry remained frozen at the base of the steps.

"Granger, Weasley. Good, you're still awake. "

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione was on her feet. "Is everything alright?

"Everything's fine. I was just informed by the Headmaster that five new students arrived at Hogwarts this evening. Three of them have been sorted into Gryffindor. I'll be bringing them up shortly and I need the Prefects—" McGonagall paused and Harry bit his lip as her eyes careened over to the staircase. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Potter! I don't know how many times I have to have this discussion with you. Light's out was over an hour ago. Get in bed before I take points from Gryffindor."

"Fine," Harry said before shooting her a puzzled glance. "New students? Since when does Hogwarts accept transfers?"

"This really isn't any of your business, Potter, but Hogwarts has always accepted transfer students—especially in the event that the students' previous academy was recently attacked by Dementors. _Are you going to make me take points from my own house?_"

"What? When—?"

"_Potter!"_

"I'm going, I'm going!" Harry threw up his hands in defeat.

As he ascended the stairs, he heard McGonagall tell Ron and Hermione, "Like I was saying, Gryffindor will be getting three new students: a fourth-year named Abby Norton and two fifth-years called Jude Cooper and Thomas McQuillen…"

* * *

Harry prepared for bed slowly, taking an inordinate amount of time to change from his robes to his sweatpants. By the time he'd finished brushing and flossing, he was quite sure his teeth had never been so clean. Still, Ron hadn't returned with the new students.

Glancing at the mirror, Harry grimaced at his reflection. Nearly three months later, he still couldn't get used to the haircut imposed upon him by Sirius and the others on his birthday—his one day of freedom from a summer otherwise spent entirely in the confines of Privet Drive.

Weirder still was the lack of wire-rimmed glasses. ("Vision correction is absolutely vital at this point, Harry," Remus had told him seriously. "We can't risk anything happening to you because you can't see.") _At least it'll be good for Quidditch, _Harry reasoned.

When he felt as though he couldn't postpone sleep any longer, he returned to the dormitory and was momentarily surprised to see two extra four-posters resting on the right to his own. Climbing into into bed, Harry drew the curtains and casting a silencing charm on himself.

"This should be interesting," Harry mumbled as he drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2: Prophetic Clues

**Author's Note**: Hmm…nothing much to say at this point. Chapter 1 will likely be re-written a bit within the next couple of weeks, so check back for that. I hope you enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned anything in the Harry Potter universe, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

"Thank Merlin for silencing charms."Harry placed a clammy hand against his forehead, grimacing as his scar throbbed against his palm. Even in a whisper, his voiced sounded scratchy and raw—as if he'd been screaming for hours on end. A clouded glance at the silver-emblazoned numbers of his wristwatch—a birthday gift from Hermione—indicated that it was 4:02 ("Far too early for you!") and he'd likely done just that.

Graveyards. _Kill the spare. _Green light. Unseeing, lifeless eyes—

Harry shook the nightmare from his mind and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Sleep was all but impossible now and a few laps around the Quidditch pitch and a hot shower might do him some good before breakfast, anyway.

As he dug through his trunk for his trainers, muggle jeans, and a simple, white t-shirt, Harry threw a curious glance at the new beds lined against the wall. The occupants hadn't bothered to close the draperies, but the darkness of the room made it impossible for him to make out much more than the outlines of their bodies.

He supposed it wasn't that unusual to have transfer students; a couple of students had transferred in to Hufflepuff the year before, he vaguely remembered after being reamed by McGonagall last night. Still, he wondered how the dynamic of the dormitory would change with two new faces.

Only time would tell, he decided, as he turned back to his trunk. Grabbing his Firebolt, he quietly made his way to the door and descended the staircase.

Nearly two hours later, Harry returned to the dormitory feeling relaxed, but physically exhausted. Glancing around the room to make sure everyone was still sleeping, he reached into his trunk, shifted a pile of clothing, and grabbed a small tin hidden beneath it. He popped open the case of _Pepperup Pills _and plopped one in his mouth. Almost instantly, the redness in his eyes and the weary ache of his tired muscles disappeared.

With one more cautious look at his sleeping dorm mates, he again deposited the case in the bottom of his trunk. His paranoid behavior wasn't exactly necessary—the pills were far from illegal and could even be purchased by a first year if they desired them—but he knew his taking them would result in questions. Questions, mind you, he had no desire to answer. He could already hear the concern in Hermione's and Ron's voices if they found out. _"Aren't you sleeping? Are the nightmares back? Maybe you should owl Sirius and Remus and see what they think."_

He'd never tell them that the nightmares never went away in the first place; or that he didn't want to distract the two Marauders from their mission. No, Harry decided. Silencing charms and Pepperup Pills were just a necessary part of life for now.

Harry made his way to the shower, stripping himself of his sweaty clothes and stepping into the soap-scented steam. Thirty minutes later, he shut off the water, wrapped himself in a scarlet towel, and ran brushed the black tendrils from his eyes.

"How'd you get that scar on your shoulder?"

Harry jumped, causing him to lose his footing on the wet tiles of the bathroom floor. One hand grasping the golden countertop—the other tightening protectively on the towel circling his waist—he turned to the face to the bathroom entrance.

Leaning against the archway was an unfamiliar face. The boy heaved a large yawn before giving him a small smile. It was a confident smile, Harry decided. Not Malfoy arrogant, though. Rather, it was the kind you'd expect of the Weasley twins—full of humor. You could see the mirth behind his bright-blue eyes, as well. Harry noticed that his black hair stuck up in all directions but, unlike his own, appeared that it could be tamed if necessary.

"Jude Cooper," he introduced himself, reaching out a hand in greeting. Harry shook it. "My friend Thomas and I just transferred in."

"I'm Ha—"

"—rry Potter. I know who you are," Cooper told him, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached out his hand in greeting. Harry shook it. "Quidditch then?"

"Er, no. I was just out flying…" Harry trailed off, confused. "Wait, what?"

"The scar on your shoulder…is it from Quidditch?" Cooper asked again, cocking his head and appraising Harry's expression in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable.

It wasn't, but Harry didn't see how his personal stories and scars—including the one left in his shoulder by a Basilisk fang—were any of the new kid's business, no matter how nice he seemed. He shrugged and responded with a simple, "Sure."

Cooper gave him another quizzical glance and opened his mouth to ask a question, before apparently thinking better of it. Harry grimaced internally; he got enough questions from Fudge, the _Prophet_,and _Witch Weekly. _He didn't fancy getting them from a nosy roommate, as well, and made a mental note to avoid being alone with Cooper.

"I'm going to go get ready," Harry told him, walking purposefully to the door. Nodding in response, Cooper moved in front of the mirror to examine his reflection.

Harry paused at the entrance and turned back to the new boy, who was purposely running his fingers through the tips of his dark hair.

"Cooper? Jude?" he called uncertainly, unsure of which greeting was appropriate.

"Potter? Harry?" He responded, a definite note of amusement in his tone. "Call me Jude."

"Okay. Er," Harry stalled, feeling a bit awkward. "Maybe knock before walking into the shower next time, alright?"

Jude grinned at him before returning to examining his reflection in the mirror. "From everything I've read about you, I didn't expect you to be a prude. But whatever you say, Harry. See you at breakfast."

* * *

If Ron and Hermione's schedules were any indication about the life of a Prefect, Harry was glad he hadn't been offered the position. The brief pang of jealously and the devilish voice in the recesses of his mind which had insisted, _You deserved it, Harry, _vanished all but instantly when he'd learned of the meetings, responsibilities, and expectations for which his friends would be held accountable. The pair was occupied from sun up to sun down—not including the twice-a-week night patrols.

Between their schedules and Angelina Johnson's—Gryffindor's new quidditch captain—practice regime, Harry generally got to see them only during lessons and on the weekend. However, they discovered quickly that fifth year lessons weren't exactly conducive to talking. OWLs loomed closer each day and every professor seemed to have kicked their lessons into hyper-drive.

Professor Flitwick assigned a new Charm for mastery every class period. McGonagall was even worse, requiring twelve inches of parchment a week discussing the process and effects of in-class lessons. They'd be expected to perform minor human transfiguration, such as changing eye color and hairstyle, on their exam and needed to be fully prepared to do so. First, however, they'd be practicing on dummies, which were lifelike enough to make Harry distinctly uncomfortable. However, Harry and McGonagall were both pleasantly surprised at the ease with which he was able to turn a mound of messy, shapeless hair into neatly trimmed eyebrows. He'd even beat out Hermione and Jude, whom the class quickly discovered was fantastic and transfiguration.

In fact, Jude seemed to excel in most every subject. As did the other new fifth-year Gryffindor, Thomas McQuillen. And the teacher's seemed to love them for it, often holding them after class to chat.

McQuillen, for his part, was a soft-spoken boy with sandy hair and kind, brown eyes. However, Harry noted quickly the most distinctive feature about Thomas was the boy's sense of perception. While he never directly asked him questions or pried into his personal business like Jude Cooper did frequently, Harry got the distinct impression that Thomas was analyzing him. Whether it be in class, the dorm, or the common room, he felt as though his every move was being analyzed. For what purpose, Harry had yet to discover, but resolved to stay on guard until he did.

There were only two exceptions to Jude and Thomas's successful rapport with teachers. The first existed within the confines of the dungeon. In Potions, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were shocked to discover that there were two individuals able of irritating Professor Snape almost as much as Harry—almost. It may have something to do with Jude's insistence on throwing hexes at the Slytherin's, or that McQuillen's ability to destroy a cauldron was rivaled only by Neville.

Whatever the reason, when Snape wasn't bating Harry _("Potter, just because _Witch Weekly_ admires your smile doesn't mean you can't chop your ginger roots instead of mince them," he'd sneer as Malfoy looked on in glee. "10 points from Gryffindor."), _he was screaming at Thomas or assigning Jude detention. To Harry and Ron's pleasure—and Hermione's chagrin—neither boy seemed to mind too much. Rather, they exchanged mischievous glances and shook with silent mirth.

The other professor who couldn't seem to tolerate the pair's existence—or anyone else's for that matter—was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. After the Moody-Crouch fiasco, Fudge and the Ministry had elected to override Dumbeldore's authority and appoint their own Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor and had given her the title of High Inquisitor.

"They're interfering at Hogwarts," Hermione had warned he and Ron at the opening feast. "Fudge is afraid of people believing yours and Dumbledore's story about You-Know-Who's return; it's their way of making sure he stays in line and doesn't cause too much trouble."

And she seemed to be right. Dolores Umbridge was—to put it plainly—about as nice as Aunt Petunia. Dressed from head to toe in a putrid shade of pink and drenched in a perfume that smelled like a mixture of posies and wet cat, the most offensive thing about Umbridge was her insistence that the students not learn _anything. _

"The Ministry believes that your previous instructors were given far too much leniency in their curriculum," she informed students on the first day of class in a sweet-as-pie tone that hardly fit her. "Defense instruction should be done in _theory, _not in practice."

The result had been a verbal standoff between Umbridge and Harry. She declared that he was an attention-seeking liar, Voldemort was _not_ back, and that there was no reason to practice defense. Harry, in turn, had informed the class that the ministry was delusional and incompetent, Voldemort _was _back, and that Umbridge was crackpot.

Harry ended up with a weeks worth of detention and a strong warning from McGonagall to "tread lightly" around Dolores Umbridge—a lesson that wasn't headed, but was driven home further by a blood-drawing quill and the carefully hidden scar on his hand which read, _I must not tell lies. _

And speaking of ministry incompetence and cruelty…

Harry glanced at the wrinkled copy of _The Daily Prophet _in his hands, his eyes focused on a few lines at the bottom of page eight. Voldemort had been unnervingly quiet since the Third Task—there had been no murders, no attacks, and no sightings of the dark mark. His inaction worked well for the Ministry, who had consequentially been able to keep Dumbledore's and Harry's story under wraps. Cedric's death, Rita Skeeter's replacement had reported, was a tragic accident that despite his best efforts, Harry couldn't prevent. As typical, Harry was to be lauded as a hero. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was painted as senile and losing his touch.

Despite the lack of coverage, Harry checked _The Prophet _daily for any news that could provide some sort of insight as to what Voldemort might be up to. Today, a small story caught his eye.

_**ATTEMPTED MINISTRY BREAK-IN by Bella Farley **_

_Sturgis Podmore of Laburnum Gardens, Clapham was arrested on Friday morning. Podmore, a former ministry employee, is charged with attempting to break in to a room on Level Nine of the Ministry of Magic. Percy Weasley, undersecretary to Minister Fudge, reports that the investigation is ongoing, but it appears as if nothing was taken. _

_Podmore is currently being held at Azkaban prison, where he awaits trial on the 16__th__ of November._

Harry frowned as closed the paper, which turned into a downright scowl as he saw his own face on the cover, resting beneath the headline, _**PICTURE PERFECT: POTTER NAMED **_**WITCH WEEKLY'S **_**"MOST WANTED WIZARD!"**_

"Bloody reporters. Crumpling the paper between his hands, Harry glanced impatiently around the emptying common room. He wanted to discuss the implications of the article with Ron and Hermione before curfew, but would only be able to do so if they got back soon. Ron might write off the story as being nothing of importance, but Hermione seemed to share his opinion that anything suspicious should be treated with utmost scrutiny.

"Come on, guys," Harry muttered under his breath, cursing late-night Prefect patrols. As he did so, Harry tensed as he noticed Thomas's eyes shift to his direction, before returning to the heated game of Chess he and Jude were engaged in. The movement was subtle, but the way the brunette's brow furrowed slightly told Harry that it might be better to talk to Ron and Hermione in the morning after breakfast, away from prying eyes.

Vowing to show the paper to them in the morning, Harry faked a yawn and made his way up the staircase. As he retreated to the dorm, he determinedly ignored the stares he felt burning against the back of his head.

* * *

**Author's Note:** All right class, let's take a "review" poll: Who wants this to be a SLASH story and who would prefer it not to be? I'll ultimately make the decision, but I'd like to know your opinions. Slash or no slash?

**Please review and let me know!**


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